The blink of an eye
by ElmaRider
Summary: Sherlock and John is in the middle of the investigation of strange disappearances happening all over London, but they are starting to realize this is a case out of the ordinary, even for them.
1. Chapter 1

THE BLINK OF AN EYE  
- A Wholock fanfiction -

**Chapter 1**

The soil crumbled between his pale fingers and fell to the ground as dust. Cold, yet dry. _Another one._ He moved the palm of his hand gently across the spot, snorted, and was quickly back at his feet.

«Sherlock Holmes.» He had seen the inspector approaching him while he was kneeling on the damp grass, but from the look of his dull, perfectly fitted grey suit and tie straight from beneath the heath of his wife's freshly bought iron, the monotony of the following conversation was hardly worth the effort of lifting his head. Sherlock gave the open door of the old house a quick look, hoping to spot John leaving the entrance after nearly 15 minutes of searching the building - despite the clarity in his statement that he would be wasting his time. The deserted house didn't hold more evidence than the others. But John had been determined to have a look.

He then turned to the inspector, coldly, and was faced with the vague expression of a middle aged man who had grown long tired of his job. The thin, carefully combed hair was already carrying a fragment of grey far too early, firm wrinkles had taken permanent residence beneath the eyes that were currently examining him thoroughly, and a small speck of late night alcohol was still lingering to his breath (even though he made sure not to stand too close to him, in the fear that anyone should notice). «The rumours appears to be true.» He scoffed, shifted his weight from one foot to another with a constrained look of disbelief and reached out his hand. «Chief inspector Dodson. I was signed the case a couple of days ago.»

Sherlock ignored the requested handshake and tilted his head back to get a look at the sky above them. «Has it been raining today?»

Inspector Dodson was suddenly unsettled by the simple question and seemed unsure whether or not to answer. It was indeed a stupid question, which coming from a notorious mastermind who had recently faked his own suicide, clearly had the man confused. The air was still thick with the moist sense of freshly descending rain, and the clouds had been closing in on the sun like water drawn cotton, causing a chilly spring weather for several days. «Yes, it's been raining all day. It only just stopped a few hours ago. Mr. Holmes?»

He rushed towards the small staircase leading up to the Dodson's abandoned home, stopped, gazed upon the crime scene from the blue lights of the four police cars flashing through the gate and along the poorly kept garden, and were just as soon back at the little, dry spot by the edge of the house. «Did they keep something here?» he asked, staring at the spot, which appeared invisible to the one who didn't know what he was looking for. The inspector opened his mouth only to close it again, with the scepticism drawn clearly across his face as he moved a step closer.

«I'm afraid I can't quite see the how this is relevant to the Dodson's disappearance,» he said, but his voice indicated a certain amount of doubt.

«But why would anyone move it, what could a recently married couple, as well as all the other victims, be keeping in their driveway that was so important it had to be deposed of...» he continued without minding Dodson's recent remark, nor his presence. «Unless, of course, it wasn't theirs at all.»

Inspector Dodson only stared at him, not being able to make sense of any of Sherlock's continuously incomprehensible talk. «I'll, er... I'll ask someone to have a word with the neighbours, perhaps they would have seen something,» he said, and had turned to leave the second before the final words escaped his mouth.  
«No signs of a forced entrance,» John declared more than loudly enough to be picked up by the ears of the whole investigating team, but by the time the tone of his voice had reached the back of Sherlock's shoulder, he knew John was looking at him. «Dinner's still on the table.»

_At last_. He turned around to face his colleague. John Watson had just left the staircase, headed closer to him as soon as he'd caught Sherlock's attention, and stood before him with the resting look upon his face that usually stated that he was unwillingly prepared for the comprehensive I-told-you-so-speech that was approaching him. The pure hidden annoyance over this look was enough to keep Sherlock quiet about whichever point he wished to enlighten him of. He had been back working with John for weeks now, but the sight of him still reminded him of how much he'd missed his friend. Not to mention the thrilling, bitter, but tasteful excitement of a yet unsolved case.

«Tell me, what links an old shoe salesman working a late night shift, a nine year old boy and his sister walking home from school, a young student reading in the park and a married couple eating dinner in their own kitchen, all disappearing into thin air?»

He glared at the ground before him and sighed, as if the tip of Sherlock's shoes didn't provide him with the slightest shred of interest. «I- I don't know. Nothing.» A pensive wrinkle appeared as two simple, faint lines closed in by the sleeplessness in his eyes, and he moistened his lip before looking back at Sherlock.

«Exactly. So where does that leave us?»

John blinked. For a moment before speaking it seemed as though his lips were making several disapproved efforts to locate the ability to form words. «Nowhere?»

Sherlock started pasting about the driveway, spinning at his feet, as acting out a live creation of the restless thoughts that were savaging his head. «No, not nowhere.» Once again he was drawn to the single, circular spot of dry ground. He fell to his knees and leaned forward, the coldly delicate skin of his face nearly touching the scattered gravel that amounted the narrow driveway. His eyes flickered; examining, blissful, sharp and green. It was right there beneath him, but he could not see it. _What was it? _«We're missing something. That's where it leaves us.»

«How do we even know the disappearances are connected?»

«It's the oddness. The implausibility.» He was standing now. «It's like a spreading illness. People are scared. Four unexplainable disappearances in two weeks? They made the connection even before the police did - they want answers, John, they want -» Studying the gravel in his hand, he interrupted himself, but only for a brief moment. There it was again: The flicker in his eyes, a strange fascination, paralysed by thought, already leaving the corner of his eye the moment you spotted it. « - truth.»

As another patrol of policemen left the house, the two detectives headed for the tall and rusty, less inviting iron gate by which all the recently arrived cars were lined up. Inspector Dodson was the first to spot them and was clearly prepared to converse, but was once again ignored by Sherlock, who determinately walked straight past him without so much as a look in his direction. John gave him an apologizing look, got half way through an excuse as he walked by, but changed his mind and hurried after Sherlock.

«I need you to run some basic tests on this.» He was talking to a short woman who seemed rather startled by his presence, while reaching her the dirt he had picked up from the ground. He tilted his hand and the gravel fell into a small plastic container. John admittedly found this a bit strange, but didn't say anything. He knew Sherlock preferred to do the tests himself, and rarely left such a task in the hands of someone else, even a simple one like this. Even so, he knew how for the last couple of weeks they had been forced to keep a low profile, especially now that reporters had started showing up at his door.

The young woman examined the plastic bag for a moment before another thought suddenly replaced her attention. «I was told to inform you that the media is on its way. There'll be reporters rattling about the premises in five minutes.»

John stepped into sight from a moment of blending into the background. «_Five minutes?_» He looked to Sherlock, but his eyes were firmly fixed upon the police woman. But despite the irritation he felt, John hadn't forgotten about common courtesy. «Thank you, Mrs...»

«_Miss _Barrett.»

Sherlock stepped back in after a brief moment of studying their surroundings. «Guard that sample with your life, Miss Barrett.» A questionable smile mixed with confusion barely had time to take form on her pale lips before they were both gone.

«Why do you have to keep embarrassing yourself?» Sherlock asked, as John was catching up with him.

«What?»

«It was obvious she wasn't married. It wouldn't have cost you more than a second to take a quick glance at her hand to work that out. She was clearly bothered by your assumption.»

«What do you mean, bothered?»

Sherlock sighed. «It's not just that she isn't married, she's been single for months, which she's not exactly thrilled about, couldn't you tell?»

John didn't get the chance to answer him. «Taxi!» They let themselves into the black cab the very second it pulled over, and which after a quick exchange of words then proceeded to drive off.

«It's not making any sense.» He glared at him; it was almost as if one could hear the little puzzle pieces ticking around in his head. Sherlock had turned to face the rushing streets outside the car window, but John was almost certain he knew he was looking at him.

«No sign of forced entrance, no record of anyone seeing them leave the house, dinner still on the table, a dry spot in the middle of the driveway, and four conspicuously similar, unsolved cases.»

«Well, the only thing I know for sure is that this sounds like your kind of case.» But Sherlock was consumed by the sound of the ticking puzzles, and didn't seem to acknowledge his existence.

The busy streets of London was leaping by them as the comfortable warmth of the cab was soaked in silence. The driver suddenly hit the breaks. A tired, red traffic light was shimmering before them, as confirmed by the long drawn sigh coming from the front seat. Sherlock, who was usually impatient, appeared unaware that the car had stopped. Or presumably, and most likely, simply couldn't be bothered to grant this insignificant detail any of his attention.

John decided to follow his example and took a glance out the window to his left. The tension was already starting to build up, and cars were hanging onto each others tails while waiting for the sore red eyelid of the traffic light to shut close. Across the street, the pavement was echoing in shoe heals and pieces of conversations, stitched together in an irreversible mush. But in-between the rushing crowds, behind the row of cars, something was different.

John squinted. There _was_ nothing different. He shook his head, trying to brush off the strange feeling that had taken hold in him. The lights switched to green and so the car drove on, leaving behind the crowd, the cars and the blue box, just disappearing in the corner of his eye. Still hesitant, he turned his head. «Did you see that?»

«See what?» Sherlock didn't even look at him, as if he was caught up in something else, - which, given it further thought, he probably was. John turned and gazed through the back window once more, but there was nothing unusual about the street that was slowly drifting away from them. He wasn't even sure what he thought he'd seen, or if he'd even seen anything at all. «Nothing,» he eventually concluded, and leaned his head against the seat. «Never mind it.»

But Sherlock didn't seem to mind it at all.

As the cab pulled up by 221B in the falling nightly shadows of Baker Street, the sun was no longer to be seen. John was exhausted. They had investigated five different crime scenes in one day, each more thoroughly than the last. He stepped out of the cab and pulled his phone out from his pocket. It must have been the sixth or seventh time he checked it within the last hour, but there was still no sound from Mary.

«Don't worry. She's fine.» Sherlock slammed the car door closed and the cab proceeded to drive off, leaving them silently outside the door to Sherlock's apartment, with the faint sound of the busier parts of the city humming along in the background. «Her phone's dead.» John's facial expression turned into a mixture of startled and slightly annoyed, something he'd never seen any other face than John's manage to do. With the phone still in his hand, he looked at Sherlock, who was now heading for the door.

«Wh...» He drew a breath, and then asked, «her phone is dead?»

Sherlock turned and saw the look on his friend's face. It was beginning to tilt more towards annoyed than startled now. For some reason, he found it somewhat encouraging. «She forgot her charger.»

There was a click from the lock, followed by the door being pushed open.

«How...» Interrupting himself, he pressed the bottom of his phone against his lips. «Oh, never mind.» He then hurried after, into the familiarity of the building that had once been his home.

_To be continued_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Something woke John early the next morning, despite yesterday's drain of energy. He must have dozed off sometime while reading that article about the disappearances. Sure enough, he spotted the newspaper that had been tossed to the floor, not even able to recall half of what he'd read before the tiredness finally defeated him. All he knew for sure was that it hadn't exactly clarified anything.

With a push of his elbow, he lifted himself up into sitting position, grunting. He had never particularity enjoyed sleeping on this couch; not once had he failed to wake up with an aching back. Yet there was something that made him reluctant to the thought of sleeping in his old bedroom.

A few moments passed him before he spotted the familiar shape leaning back into the armchair across the room. «Sherlock?» When he didn't get a response, he looked down at his wristwatch. One should have thought he would be used to Sherlock's irregular sleep pattern by now, but he was still surprised to see him. «What are you doing up so early?» At least he wasn't playing his violin.

For a moment, he thought Sherlock had been looking at him, when his eyes were in fact as glued to the wall just above his head. «There is someone at the door.»

John straightened his still aching back. «What do you mean there's someone at the door?»

«I mean there is someone standing outside the door to our apartme -» He paused. «_My_ apartment, with the intention of getting in.»

John opened his mouth, but before he could speak, there was a knock on the door. Then silence.

«Aren't you going to answer it?»

With a swift move, he bounced off his chair. «No.»

«No?» He was sitting right at the edge of the couch now, arms resting on his thighs. «It might be a client, - it could be important.»

«It _is_ a client. An incredibly dull one.» Hands folded behind his back, he walked steadily over to the window. John's eyes followed him impatiently, but were then suddenly ripped away from Sherlock's annoyingly calm posture and fell on the door, as yet another knock sounded through the room, more persistent this time.

«Boring,» he muttered, under his breath. «We have far more important things to worry about.» Sherlock's shape was dimmed and somehow stretched where it broke through the the early rays of sunlight that leaped from the window and flooded the space around him. His fingertips stroke down the edge of the curtain, barely touching it, before he retracted them to rest against the palm of his hand.

John knew he was one to simply take for his word and that there would be no point in trying to reason with him, but he couldn't quite prevent the words from rolling off his tongue. «All right, enlighten me. How could you possibly know it's not important?»

Sherlock was quiet for a while, fixated on whichever events that were taking place outside, or perhaps in his own mind. It could only have been seconds, though it felt like more, until the tall shape by the window sighed and started speaking in a softly dark, yet comforting voice that clutched to the walls of the room. «I was watching her as she walked down the street. Woman in her late 60's, widow, _obviously _an animal lover, the state of her purse clearly showed that. » As he spoke, his voice rapidly increased. John thought he would sometimes forget anyone was listening, and kept ranting to himself, only serving his own amusement by thinking out loud. But John listened. Yes, Sherlock's ranting could eventually leave anyone's ears sore, but his fascination with the indulgent details that never seemed to escape his eye, would always catch his attention. Even after knowing Sherlock for years, it never quite seized to amaze him.

«…Kept looking around her. Not in a nervous way, no, she wasn't being followed, if you suspected you were being followed, you would be looking behind you, she wasn't looking behind her shoulder, she was looking everywhere else.» Though he was facing away from him, John could almost see his lips move to the rhythm of his words. «And then there was the way she moved, it wasn't curiosity, - you see, she knows these streets. She walks her dog around the block every afternoon between five and seven, up until last week, that is. It was _hope_. The hope to find something she'd lost.» He paused, and slowed his voice at the last sentence. «The old woman has lost her pet.» He spit the last word out like he was eager to get rid of it. A third knock sounded at the door, almost as though it confirmed the end of Sherlock's speech. Not to mention it had been in nearly exact synchronisation with Sherlock finally turning away from the window.

«So you're not even going to hear her out?»

«I'm not a pet detective, John.» The blue gown fluttered lightly above the floor as he disappeared into the kitchen, mumbling something about a waste of time.

«Fine,» John said, got up from the couch and walked over to the door. The woman was just turning to leave when he opened it, spinning back around on her heals as the door swung open. Her eyes widened.

«You're John Watson?» Now, John wasn't anything near as observant and sharp witted as Sherlock (a fact he was indeed regularly reminded of), but the description he has just received of this woman was, as far as he could tell, to the spot. Even with the unusual few details Sherlock had provided him with (although, keeping in mind he had been observing her from a fair distance, there's no wonder he hadn't exactly been able to study the grains of her hair), there was no doubt Sherlock had been right in his deduction. Not that John ever doubted it.  
'

«Y-yes. That's me.» He leaned his head against the door frame, his tongue running against the corner of his mouth, and had a quick glance down at her purse: It was dark, worn leather, covered in several scratch marks, - one she must have been particularity fond of, considering she had not yet replaced it with a less, well, torn-up one. _Obviously an animal lover, the state of her purse clearly showed that. _He smiled, but was immediately reminded of the situation, and wiped it off.

«Nice to meet you, Dr. Watson, very nice indeed.» She shook his hand, almost frantically. «I'm Buckley, Johanna Buckley. I heard... I've read about you. You _solve _things, you and that Sherlock Holmes. Is he here?»

John looked into the kitchen, where his infamous, case-solving friend was currently trying to work out how to crack open an egg without half of its shell following it into the frying pan. «He's a bit... busy.» He stepped out into the hallway and left the door half closed behind him. «Anything I can help you with?»

The look of concern, which had been vaguely present during the whole conversation, was suddenly amplified, and she started fiddling with something on the inside of her toughened leather hand bag. «It's my dog. She's missing.» She pulled out a photograph and handed it to him. It had a few clear, white lines running through it, indicating it had been folded one too many times, and presented a small beagle with a pink, glittering collar around its neck. John shook his head apologetic.

«I'm sorry, but this just isn't the kind of case that we do.» She accepted the picture as he returned it to her, but the look on her face was now shifting from concerned to desperate.

«No, you don't understand. Sophie, she never runs away. She's terrified of cars, you see, strangers too, for that matter. She's really only ever outside when I walk her, - even then she's nervous, - or when I let her out on the porch. She likes the porch.» Her eyes suddenly turned distant. «But then, just the other day... I opened the door to let her back in, and...» She looked up at him. The sole pain in her eyes filled him with guilt. But Sherlock was right – they weren't pet detectives. And they _did _have bigger concerns at the moment, with actual people vanishing into thin air, not family dogs who'd strayed off from their owners. Yet he didn't have the heart to interrupt her. «I don't know where she could possibly have gone. I live on the eighth floor and she's scared of heights. _Please. _Please help me find her. You've solved so many cases, I just thought that maybe... This wouldn't take up much of your time, I'm sure.»

He allowed a few seconds to pass before responding, trying to think of the right words to let her down gently. «Look, we'll be keeping an eye out for your dog, all right, Mrs. Buckley? But this is not really a good time. I'm sorry. Maybe you should print out some posters?»

Disappointedly, she put the wrinkled photograph back into her purse and straightened her scarf. «Yes. You're right, I should, of course.» Johanna Buckley smiled dimly, not making much of an effort hiding how she truly felt about his rejection. «Let me know if you hear anything. I live just down the block.» He smiled confirmedly with an consequent nod, waited until she was half way down the stairs, then closed the door. He took a deep breath. _Old women. _One couldn't get mad at them, with their fragile, innocent posture and friendly faces, but how he would like to, every now and then. He decided not to let himself bother with it and headed into the kitchen, to see if Sherlock had unravelled the mystery of the eggs yet.

His doubts were soon confirmed by Sherlock's low mouthed swearing.

«Damn it!» The room revealed a thin layer of smoke as he stepped in, with Sherlock bent over the stove, causing it. He was picking sceptically at what appeared to be attempt of an omelette with a fork, and it gave out a faint crushing sound. John frowned.

«Are you _cooking_?»

«I'm making breakfast.»

John stared at the frying pan, trying to figure out how anyone could possibly manage to make an omelette resemble a thin, overcooked pancake, nearly half of it consisting in pieces of egg shell.

«You know you're only supposed to use the _inside _of the egg, right?»

Sherlock seemed to be too deeply bound by concentration to answer. He lifted - or more like ripped, - the omelette from the pan with the tip of the fork and studied it up close. «Do people actually eat this?»

«Not _that, _no.» The omelette slipped off the fork and fell to the floor, Sherlock looking down at it with a mixture of concern and confusion. «Tell you what. Why don't _I _make us some breakfast?»

He stepped over to the fridge, which, as he opened the door, revealed an opened box of canned pees, an egg carton and some out-dated milk. He kept the question of how anyone could survive off of this, to himself, and reached out for the egg carton. It was revealingly light.

«We're out of eggs.»

This time, John was somewhat thrown off, though only the second of confusion running through his face revealed it. That was the second time Sherlock had mistakenly used the word _we. _Sherlock didn't make mistakes.

With his eyes still on Sherlock, he closed the door to the fridge. «And just about everything else,» he said, before the uncomfortable silence had time to catch up with them. «I'll run down to the shop.»


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **_Thank you so much for your reviews and follows, - and I'm sorry it's taken me this long to update... It's just been a lot going on lately. Anyway, thanks again for your interest and I hope you enjoy this a bit shorter chapter! - Elma _

**Chapter 3**

John decided to take a detour by walking through Regent's Park. It was reassuringly quiet at this time of day, and the light wind stroke through the leaves above him with a gentle touch, to which they shivered vaguely in response. The sun had just reached the sky and there was a slight chill in the air, making him regret his choice of wearing the black leather jacket, which he unsuccessfully tried to wrap tighter around him in seek of warmth.

This was the very park that boy had disappeared from. Just like the house they visited yesterday, there was nothing that gave away the strange occurrence that had taken place on these grounds.

Every now and then, a stranger passed by him. It seemed that every single one of them was either of old age or walking their dog. Some of them both. Maybe it was some kind of unwritten, formal rule that old people and dog owners had to be out of bed before sunrise. That would explain Mrs. Buckley's need to knock on their door at six in the morning to inform them of a missing dog. At least, he thought to himself, they weren't out to supply their sociopathic friend, who was apparently incapable of seeing to this himself, with food. If it wasn't for Mrs. Hudson, there probably wouldn't even be any old milk, canned pees or empty egg cartons in that fridge.

The line of trees that closed in on each side of him gave out a vivid smell of pine and covered the road before him in shadows that shifted with the movement of the wind. It was a long walk through the park, but he didn't mind. He needed the time to think. To breathe. For some reason he checked his phone again, though he knew there still wouldn't be a word from Mary. He wasn't worried. Not really. She could take care of herself. Besides, she was only staying with a friend, and would be back within tomorrow. But there was still something that bothered him. A feeling he couldn't quite shake off.

The sight of a bench had him come to a sudden stop. There was nothing that made it stand out, nothing out-putting or unusual, but it still froze his movements. It was an ordinary, empty wooden bench, standing by the side of the road, with the moving shadows of the branches above graciously licking over it. Somewhat indeterminable, he slowly walked over to the bench and took a seat. There was no need to rush, and his leg was for some reason starting to put up a fight. For the first time in months, he missed his cane.

He was leaning his arm against a statue on his left, legs crossed and enjoying the silence while it lasted, when he heard the footsteps of someone running. It was anything but unusual for joggers to get up this early and have a run through the park, but when he looked up, he noticed that the girl who was running down the road wasn't exactly dressed for a workout. She was wearing a blue, light dress, high-heeled boots and a brown leather jacket, and her shoulder-long, dark hair was tossed around her face as she ran. He thought of the disappearances, how one of them had happened here in this very park, and wondered whether he should stop her and ask her what she was running from. But she didn't seem scared, more like... determined.

He glanced suspiciously at her as she ran past him. He looked back in the direction she came from, but there was no one following behind her. She was seemingly alone. He was just about to shrug it off as «none of his business», when the girl appeared to come to a sudden halt, as if she'd just thought of something, and suddenly she was standing right before him, breathing heavily and looking at him with a pair of big, brown eyes.

«Have you seen...» She took a moment to catch her breath. «A... a man, sort of tall, brown suit, bow tie, talks a lot, might or might not have been wearing a fez?»

«A fez?»

She looked like she wanted to roll her eyes at that word. «Yeah,» she said, dragging out the word, as if she'd rather not be troubled to continue the sentence. «He has a thing for fez's, I don't think I'll ever really get it, snatched one from this store and... anyway, that doesn't matter,» she interrupted herself, once again in a hurry. «This is important, he's kind of my ride and he just took off and...» She stopped.

«What?» He followed her gaze, which had suddenly attached itself to something on his left. But there was nothing there but the statue. He looked back at her, confused. She didn't flinch.

«Never mind,» she said, but her eyes were still glued to the statue, or whatever it was she was staring at. «Just...» Then she took off, leaving him in utter confusion.

«_A fez,_» he said to himself, once she was gone. He shook it off with a sigh, and continued his mission to get Sherlock some food. It seemed his foot was just fine, - he must have fooled himself, overreacted. After a few steps, he couldn't help having a final look over his shoulder, but the girl was not to be seen.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

«There you are, then, what on earth took you so long?»

Clara was coming up behind him when he spoke. She found him walking down the street, still wearing his stolen fez. Not that she had expected differently. «_What took me so long?_» she said, as she walked up beside him. «One moment you were reading a newspaper, then I turn away for one second and you're gone. You really should start carrying a phone.»

«I don't like phones. Phones are stupid. You know, they used to brainwash people with them in this alternate dimension, really... not good.» He seemed distracted, suddenly peeking into a shop window with both hands and face pressed against the glass.

«That fez is stupid,» she mumbled, as he pushed the door open and barged into the shop. It was a book store. Confused, she followed him through the rows of books, waiting silently beside each other for someone to pick them out. The books seemed old, worn. They gave out a incomprehensible feeling, as old books do, of times and stories that were long forgotten, hidden inside dull, ragged covers, which would trick most into mistaking it for a reflection of the inside.

The store itself wasn't big, but there were books stocked all the way up to the roof. There were as many bookshelves as one could possibly fit, and a few more. For some reason, though, it didn't feel overwhelming or crowded. There was something about the atmosphere that simply made it calming, despite the lack of space and the fact that she could only barely fit between the shelves. Clara's eyes swept over the countless books with fascination as she passed them.

The Doctor came to a stop and knelt before one of the shelves. For a moment, she had forgotten all of her questions, but they suddenly returned to her. «Doctor, what are you doing?»

Even if he had intended to answer, they were interrupted by an employee: A short, blonde girl with a friendly, round face and a sticker attached to her sweater, reading the name «Sarah, cashier». Neither of them had noticed her walking up behind them. «Can I help you with anything?»

Clara looked at the Doctor, but he was too busy studying the books in front of him, dragging his finger across the spines and mumbling to himself.

«I think... I think we're good, thanks,» said Clara, and Sarah the cashier smiled and gave her a nod before she left them alone. The Doctor continued searching the bookshelf.

«_The Lost World, The White Company, Round the Red Lamp..._» he said, skimming through one of the three books he held in his hand. Clara walked over to him to have a look. The books were indeed old, the pages almost yellow and some ripped, and all three of them completely unknown to her. She recognized the author on the cover, though. All these books were written by Arthur Conan Doyle. She stepped back.

«So, fez's and Arthur Conan Doyle? Even for a time travelling alien, you have weird obsessions.»

The Doctor pushed the books back into the shelf with a look on his face that almost showed more confusion than she felt. «There is not a single book about Sherlock Holmes in here.»

«So?»

«_So,_» he said, spinning around and finally facing her. «This is the seventh book store I've checked, not to mention those two _huge_ libraries.» He empathized the word _huge _with his hands and widened eyes, but then appeared to disagree with himself. «Well, I've seen bigger, there is library containing every written work in the universe, brilliant place, remind me to take you there sometime, - no, hang on, maybe not...» He said, as an afterthought. Then he changed thought entirely and headed in another direction, again. She let out a sigh of reluctance, and forced herself to turn to follow him through to the other end of the store.

«Sarah!» the Doctor exclaimed, with a pointing finger. The cashier jumped at the sudden outburst of her name, and put a hand to her chest, smiling at her own reaction. «Do you happen to have any books about Sherlock Holmes? You know, the famous detective, the one with the weird hat,» he said, gesticulating to his head. Sarah stared at his fez for a moment, questioning just what must have been his definition of _weird hats_.

«Sherlock Holmes? From Baker Street?»

«Baker Street, yes, that's the one,» the Doctor said, turning his head to Clara with a big smile. She sent him a somewhat questionable smile back.

«That strange chap. Oh, I wouldn't think there's any books written about him yet. I don't doubt there will be, though, the genius that they claim him to be... Even if there is, you wouldn't find them here, I only have old books.» The Doctor tried not to give away his confusion. As he exchanged a look with Clara, she could also spot a glimpse of excitement in his eyes. There was no way he could fool her. She knew he loved this.

«You should try the book store down the street. Got about every newly published book there is. They should open in about an hour.»

«Thanks.»

And then he was out the door, Clara trying to keep up with him. He slowed down as they were out on the street again, looking around him, then grabbing Clara by the shoulders as she reached him. «You see what I mean? Something is wrong.»

Clara met with the intensity in his eyes, his pupils flickering back and forth in the flowing mixture of blue and green, and saw the sincerity in them. But before a second had passed, he let go of her, and returned to his usual, externalizing behaviour. It would put her off sometimes, when he got all serious. It was like seeing one of your parents cry: It's not like you go around thinking they're completely incapable of it, but it's such a strange feeling to witness it. At least the Doctor wasn't sad. That was even worse. She'd caught him sometimes, staring blankly into the air with the most weary, heartbreaking look, distant, and so very knowing. As if he had knowledge of some awful truth he could never speak, never share with anyone. It was the first time she saw that look that she realized how lonely he was, and how she would never, no matter how close she got to him, be able to fill that loneliness.

But she would never leave him. Never. And every time he looked at her, she knew that he knew. And they both knew that would be enough.

The Doctor pulled out some paper from the inside of his jacket. As he folded it out, it was revealed to be a newspaper. He handed it to her without a word, but with a suggestive look. It was the front page of The Times, and it consisted in a large picture of a pale, rather odd looking (yet strangely attractive), dark haired man, beneath the headline: «Genius detective Sherlock Holmes on the case of the disappearances.» She frowned. So this was what had had him take off like that all of a sudden.

«I thought Sherlock Holmes was a fictional character?»

«Yes,» he confirmed, snatching the paper from her hands. «Who lived in the 1800's»

She gave that a thought. «Something really is wrong.»

«You're catching up,» he said, and then they were on the move again. She was used it, the Doctor not being able to stay still for long at a time.

The street was as good as empty: A few cars drove by every now and then, but they had the pavement to themselves. Apart from an occasional car engine and the distant noises that by best guess came from construction workers, the Doctor's footsteps was pretty much all there was to be heard this quiet morning.

«Doctor,» she said, in a careful voice. «Are we in some parallel reality or something? Cause I thought you said that was impossible. We're not stuck here, are we?»

«No,» he said with a scoff, as if that was the stupidest thing he'd heard all day. Which it probably was too, - it wasn't actually much to take from, as the sun had only just climbed up on the sky. «This is the same reality you've always known. Well, reality is a complex word, you never really know what it is, it's very, bendable.» He made some noises with his mouth, like he was tasting the word. «Same world, though, see, the sky is blue, cars...driving.» He gesticulated to a car passing by, but this didn't really answer her question.

«So how can Sherlock Holmes be a real person, living here, now?»

«I don't know.»

«Do you think it's got anything to do with the people who's disappeared?»

«That's what we're going to find out.»

The determination in his voice made her slow down. She thought about it for a second, whether she should bring it up. It could have been nothing. But what if it wasn't?

«Doctor.»

He kept walking. «Clara.»

«_Doctor,_» she insisted, which made him stop. As he met her gaze, she said: «I think I saw one of them. The creatures you talked about.»

The sudden change of his expression worried her. She'd certainly caught his attention, more than she wanted to. He moved closer and looked at her, even more serious than before, and said with a low voice: «Where?»

«In the park. I'm not sure, but...»

He looked at her for a long time, but but she knew the concern on his face wasn't for her. The wind lurked through his hair, messing it up even worse than it was to begin with, and his eyes were once again flickered with sincerity. A few, lingering seconds passed before he finally spoke, his voice adapting the gravity she'd seen in his eyes.

«I think we should pay a visit to Mr. Sherlock Holmes.»


End file.
